


it ain't over 'til he sings

by tol_sirion



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Scent Kink, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tol_sirion/pseuds/tol_sirion
Summary: If Jaskier keeps trying to make up a sonnet in his head about how well Geralt fucks, nobody needs to know. Least of all Geralt, though sometimes he’s daydreaming and Geralt nudges him, expression suspicious as though he knows.Witchers aren’t mind-readers, Jaskier is fairly sure. It still makes him a little nervous.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 1164





	it ain't over 'til he sings

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be plain ol' pwp, but i'm a slut for feelings and had to drag on about how into geralt jaskier is. i've only seen the show, which i guess is a warning in itself? this fic was inspired by [this gifset](https://bateyjoey.tumblr.com/post/190162641740/incorrect-witcher-quotes-2-insp), somehow.

There’s something to be said about self-appointing yourself as a Witcher’s companion, Jaskier knows. Like how it will probably be a very short-lived job, and how it’s unlikely to be rewarding in any sense, and how he’s a fool for even thinking the thought. He’s been told all these things a million times, in every inn and court across the Continent since he started trailing Geralt’s steps like an attention-starved puppy. Which, well. Jaskier has enough pride in himself not to admit the truth of it out loud.

Geralt is a lot of things. Violent and harsh and unpredictable, all these things that people whisper after him when they appear, and Jaskier really had only meant to stick with him for a short while, but.

Geralt is also gentle, when he helps Jaskier down from Roach, sore from hours on her back over fields and through valleys. He’s got a smile worth at least three songs, when he thinks Jaskier can’t see, and his hands are soft despite their callouses when he reaches out and brushes dirt from Jaskier’s cheek.

How was he supposed to _not_ fall in love, somewhere along the line? He was doomed from the start, and he doesn’t need some dragon to tell him his own fate to know that.

Still. Months together, over many years, has eased the tension in Geralt’s shoulders. Jaskier likes to think it’s his charming wit and lovely voice that have wormed their way under Geralt’s defenses, but he knows it’s more than that, when he takes the time to contemplate it all. Knows it when Geralt sits close to him by the fire and their shoulders brush, knows when Geralt lets an arm slide around his middle, pressed close against his back as they try to sleep.

“For warmth,” Geralt mutters, gruff, at his questioning hum, because it always happens just as Jaskier is on the brink of sleep. The way his hand reaches up to brush some hair from Jaskier’s forehead has got nothing to do with keeping warm, but Jaskier feels himself heat up at the action anyway, cheeks burning.

At least the rumors about Geralt’s prowess in bed didn’t come from Jaskier, which he figures he should be thankful for, because he’s tried writing a song about it one time only, and barely managed to try and come up with a rhyme for ‘cock’ before Geralt threatened to leave him behind and make him walk the rest of the way to Sodden. It shut Jaskier up quick enough, but if he keeps trying to make up a sonnet in his head about how well Geralt fucks, nobody needs to know. Least of all Geralt, though sometimes he’s daydreaming and Geralt nudges him, expression suspicious as though he _knows_.

Witchers aren’t mind-readers, Jaskier is fairly sure. It still makes him a little nervous.

Besides, if Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier to sing about all his deeds, in and out of bed, then he really should stop being a tease. He’s generous, and apparently amorous when one would least expect it, because the last thing _Jaskier_ expects is Geralt’s hand wandering over his front, determined, while they’re out on the road.

They’re riding through the hillsides, headed for a town some miles north, and they’ve still got a while to go. They have barely met any other travelers on the way, and there are no current contracts, so they’re not in a rush. Jaskier could walk, was about to as they were set to head out, but Geralt had put both hands on his waist and helped him up onto Roach’s back before easily getting up himself, seating himself comfortably behind Jaskier without as much as a breath of exertion, and, well. Jaskier is not one to tempt fate when it’s working in his favor.

It’s been uneventful right up until this moment, and Jaskier startles, grabbing for Geralt’s hand to stop him but ends up just kind of covering it with his own.

“Uhm,” he says, because Geralt’s hand is steadily sliding down his chest and over his belly, coming to rest below his navel. “What are you doing?”

“Hm.” Geralt noses at the top of his head, then puts his mouth at the back of Jaskier’s neck. “What do you think?”

“I think–” and Jaskier promptly chokes on his own words as Geralt’s hand slides down between his legs, hot and heavy, kneading, and he has to grip the front of the saddle so he doesn’t just fall off, “–I think you’re a brute,” he gets out finally. “An absolute brute who – _oh_ – takes advantage of simple bards trying to make a living–”

“And yet,” Geralt hums, and he’s smiling against Jaskier’s skin, “you’re not complaining.”

Geralt’s arm, the one he’s holding the reins with, pushes Jaskier back against Geralt’s own chest, and the firm presence against his back has Jaskier yielding, melting back against him. He’s trying not to move too much, so he doesn’t disturb Roach and send her galloping down the road, but it’s hard, and his hips jerk of their own volition, pushing into Geralt’s touch.

He has a hard time staying still in normal circumstances. This is, by any means, not a normal circumstance, and he’s squirming relentlessly. Geralt’s teeth graze over his neck, a hint of what he can have, and Jaskier curses out loud and wishes he was somewhere he could get out of his clothes so he can get the fucking he craves, rather than this… teasing.

He says as much, gasping as his head falls back against Geralt’s shoulder. “ _You_ are an absolute menace,” he grits out, squeezing his eyes shut. “I cannot _believe_ – oh, _yes_ , fuck – this is the least appropriate place for any of this, and you just – _please_ – couldn’t wait until we set camp so I could reciprocate?”

Geralt chuckles. It slides right down to Jaskier’s cock.

It’s not enough. The friction, the drag of fabric over his cock, it’s good, stings in the best kind of way, but it’s not enough, it’s not the touch of skin on skin he craves. Geralt knows it, knows Jaskier’s body almost better than he does himself by now, and he nudges Jaskier’s head up. He forces himself to open his eyes, trying to sit up, and then Geralt’s pulling his hand away.

“What?” Jaskier croaks. “No, why are you stopping?”

He definitely didn’t mean to make Geralt actually stop what he’s doing, not when Jaskier is well on his way to fully hard and leaking in his pants, and he’s about to start cursing for real before Geralt holds his hand up, palm up. Jaskier knows what that means, and it’s got him flushing hot with embarrassment even as he spits in Geralt’s palm.

Geralt hums behind him, sounding pleased, and Jaskier can feel the approval to his core. It’s got his cock twitching in his pants, and he’s really going to need to wash his clothes when they reach their destination. Jaskier hurriedly pulls on the strings of his breeches and then Geralt is easing his hand inside, taking hold of his cock and spreading the wetness of his spit over it, thumbing over the head where he’s slicking already.

Jaskier groans, gripping onto Geralt’s arm to anchor himself. This is ridiculous. He knows, of course, that Geralt is enthusiastic about sex at the best of times, pinning Jaskier to various surfaces and sticking his nose against his neck, or his armpits, or his groin, scenting him and groaning about it like it’s the best he’s ever had. But it’s usually in more private places than on the open road, where any common merchant might spot them – or hear them, because Jaskier isn’t any less vocal while he’s getting speared on Geralt’s cock, getting spread so well he feels it for days – and Jaskier is nervous even as his cock kicks in Geralt’s hand at the thought of getting caught.

He feels Geralt smile against his neck, lips searching for that spot below his ear, which means he must have felt it, and Geralt confirms it by giving him a slow stroke from tip to base and back, humming. Like this, Jaskier can’t feel if Geralt is getting hard, but it’s not something that always matters. Geralt likes getting Jaskier off, and sometimes doesn’t care if he himself does, and that’s… well, Jaskier is a romantic at heart. Can anyone blame him for falling for Geralt?

Right now, Geralt is the pinnacle of calm, one arm pinning Jaskier in place, holding the reins and guiding Roach along the road, while his other hand is jerking Jaskier off slow and firm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses against Jaskier’s neck, his teeth occasionally nipping at his ear, and Jaskier feels like he’s going to explode.

He tries to hold back, he really does. Grits his teeth and bites his lip and tries to keep his moans quiet, but it’s difficult and Geralt’s only encouraging him.

“Oh, please,” he finally gasps, trying to twist around without falling off so he can look at Geralt. Geralt looks calm, but there’s a smug set to his mouth, eyes alight with amusement, that nobody will notice unless they’re as close as Jaskier is right now. “Have _mercy_.”

“Eyes on the road.” Is what he gets in reply, and Jaskier groans and settles, letting his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder. He feels hot all over, though it’s mostly centered in his gut, a slow burning that only spreads as Geralt’s pace suddenly quickens, calloused fingers catching at the slit, dragging down the vein. It’s a tight fit, but it only makes it better, and his hips jerk a little when he tries to chase the friction, leaking steadily against Geralt’s palm.

It’s always delighted Geralt how wet Jaskier tends to get, when he’s being jerked off, even if it’s got nothing against how much there is of it when Geralt comes. Jaskier can leak for hours after Geralt’s spent himself inside him, and thinking about it now gets him squirming, aching a little because he wants it, wants Geralt to fuck him and fill him up and stay in him, keeping him spread open on his cock, legs pried apart by his hands.

“Oh,” he chokes out, because it crests so suddenly, that fire in his belly, catches him unawares. “Oh, oh, Geralt–”

Geralt’s hand, the one holding the reins, presses up Jaskier’s mouth, and it’s all he can do to bite down on the leather so he doesn’t yell and startle Roach as he comes, soaking into his own clothes and spilling over Geralt’s hand. His shout is muffled, but it still nearly drowns out the way Geralt groans at the feeling and the scent of it as his cock jerks and jerks, twitching as Geralt milks him dry.

He finally slumps and Geralt gently pries the reins from his mouth and then pulls his hand out of Jaskier’s pants. It’s covered in come, and Jaskier grimaces, trying to ignore how he feels even more flushed when he _hears_ Geralt licking it from his fingers.

“ _You_ are a heathen,” he complains, doing up the laces with shaking hands, “what am I going to do with you when you just keep trying to catch me off guard? A man likes getting advanced notice when he’s about to get a hand down his pants, _thank you_.”

“You like it,” Geralt says, grasping Jaskier by the chin, turning his head enough to press a kiss to his lips. “I would have heard it by now if you didn’t.”

He sounds so confident, and Jaskier flounders for a long time, mostly because those are the fingers that were just covered in his own spend, for the love of God, Geralt.

“Well. I– Even if you’re right, you–”

Jaskier gives up and just lets out a put-upon sigh, even if he feels a lot more relaxed than he was before. Still, he can’t let it go just like that. Geralt needs to know he’s not just another conquest, even if that’s been long established at this point.

“You owe me new clothes. And a meal. I don’t just put out, I’ll have you know.”

Geralt sighs, too. “Yes, Jaskier. I know.”

Jaskier smiles and continues to lean back against him, confident that Geralt will keep him propped up for as long as he wants, and is only proven correct when Geralt doesn’t as much as say a word, just clicks his tongue and urges Roach into a light trot, his free arm around Jaskier’s waist to secure him.


End file.
